


Hawkguy and Hawkeye

by Guy_Fleegman



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Case Fic, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, clint is a dumpster fire, if you're sad about endgame this might cheer you up, matt fraction graphic novels, things that could be deemed superhero-y
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 20:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18598828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guy_Fleegman/pseuds/Guy_Fleegman
Summary: When Clint's neighbor, Simone, finds a gun in her daughter's bedroom, she goes to the Hawkeyes for help. They aren't the best superheros, but they were closest.Set in my own amalgamation of Matt Fraction's graphic novels and the MCU





	Hawkguy and Hawkeye

Three people sat at a poker table, though instead of cards in their hands they had weapons.

On the far left was a clean-cut man in his forties with graying hair, a sharp jaw, and a 9mm pointed at the woman across from him. His hand was steady and his mouth was pressed into a thin line as he straightened his tie, his cold eyes never leaving those of his target’s.

On the business end of his gun was a thin woman, her perfectly lined lips pulled up into a snarl. She too held a gun, but unlike the man about to put a bullet through her skull, her hands were shaking as she held her gun on not the clean-cut man, but on the person sitting between herself and the man.

Between the two criminals sat an idiot. This idiot had a few days stubble on his face, wore a hoodie that was long past its prime, and he smelt suspiciously of week old pizza. He had a mini cross bow aimed at the lovely women to his left’s heart and a neck knife held to the throat of the man to his right.

The air was buzzing with tension. The woman adjusted her sweaty grip, preparing herself to kill the man next to her.

The aforementioned man was biting the inside of his cheek, waiting for someone to either make a move or put down their gun. Both seemed unlikely at the moment.

When it seemed that they could sit there forever, silent and anticipating, a girl in her early twenties walked in, hands tucked in her pant’s back pockets, she stopped short once she caught sight of the table and its occupants.

All eyes snapped to look at her.

“Okay,” The middle man said, his bow lowering slightly. “This looks bad.”

“You think?” The girl replied, eyes sliding to the clean-cut man, her body tensing imperceptibly.

A beat passed.

The woman at the table squeezed the trigger, her eyes closing on instinct. A loud bang filled the room, but not before middle man had pushed his chair roughly backward onto the bowling alley-type carpet. He rolled out of the chair and shot the woman. The arrow pierced her hand, inadvertently trapping the gun against her palm with the arrow.

She cried out, but instead of doing the expected thing—draw her injured hand close—she instead chose to re-aim her gun to the idiot on the ground.

He panicked and launched the crossbow at her face with as much force as he could muster given his position.

Direct hit.

The sound of her nose being broken rang in his ears as she slumped unconscious in her chair.

Clean-cut man moved suddenly, causing the girl near the door to pull her hands out from behind her back and point two guns at the man, shaking her head.

“She shot me!” Clean-cut said in a thick Russian accent, looking pleadingly at the girl with the guns.

“Drop your gun and we can talk about it. How’s that sound, Mr. Ivanov?” She asked with a cool smile.

Ivanov narrowed his eyes, but dropped the gun, his hand then going to his shoulder where his suit was ripped and covered in a small amount of blood.

“Admirable choice, Mr. Ivanov,” she said in a bored voice. “Gold star for you.” She stepped closer to the table, her attention drifting to the groaning man on the ground who was hidden from her view by the table.

“Can we stop at the dollar store, Boss? Pick up some golden star stickers? I think he’s really looking forward to it now.”

When her only answer was more groaning, the glint of amusement fell from her face and she timidly called, “Clint? You _are_ okay, right?”

“Well, considering…” Came his breathless response as he pushed himself to his converse-clad feet.

“Holy-! Are you-?” The girl rushed around the table and her hands hovered over Clint’s bleeding chest.

“I’ve gotten up from worse, Kate,” he said looking down and grimacing at the sight. “Aw, this was my favorite hoodie.”

“You got up from this.”

“What?” He adjusted his hearing aid.

“What?”

A laceration went from one end of his chest to the other, blood coating the fringed edges of the tear in his hoodie.

Clint batted away Kate’s hands, offering an exasperated look at her. He side-stepped a few feet to the unmanned bar and grabbed a fistful of the drink napkins stamped with _‘Empire’_ in golden calligraphy.

He then went to Ivanov’s side, smiled down at him, and roughly pushed the napkins into his bleeding shoulder, earning a satisfying wince from the Russian.

“Dimitri Ivanov,” Clint said, grinding the napkins in.

“Clint Barton,” Ivanov responded, gritting his teeth, his hand itching for the familiar weight of a gun at the moment.

“Kate Bishop,” Kate interjected, pocketing her guns and waving.

Ivanov rolled his eyes. Clint smiled and gave a small wave back.

“Look, Ivanov, I’m super tired and bleeding and my favorite hooding just got ruined, so I’m not in the best of moods for, well, your entire personality and everything about you,” Clint said, letting Ivanov take hold of the napkins.

“And what exactly is my personality, Barton?” Ivanov asked, standing up on strangely steady feet. “Sophisticated? Cunning?”

“Dramatic.”

Ivanov smirked, “I was getting there.”

They made their way to the door, Kate pulling out her phone and dialing 911, while Clint spoke to Ivanov.

“I must ask, why were you sitting so close to me?” Ivanov asked.

“Well,” Clint answered. “I thought ‘If I’m gettin’ shot, so is someone else’.”

“That doesn’t seem very superhero-y.’

“I’m not a superhero, but, when I happen to be doing something that could _possibly_ be deemed ‘superhero-y’ stay out of it, okay? I have enough to deal with as it is and worrying about you stabbing me in the back is just…Stressful and frankly not good for my mental health.” Clint crossed his arms but hissed and pulled them away when they touched his injured chest.

“Whatever, Hawkguy,” Ivanov started out the door, not pausing to call over his shoulder, “Just remember who my gun was pointed at.”

Clint flipped him off.

“Cops are on their way, they’ll be here in twenty-six minutes,” Kate informed.

Clint scrunched his face. “You can’t possibly know that precisely when they’ll get here. In New York traffic it could be double or even triple that.”

“Yes, I can know.”

“Wanna bet?”

The two slammed five bucks down on the table and Clint checked his watch.

“Would it be weird to sit next to an unconscious criminal who’s currently bleeding out?” Kate asked, scrutinizing the slack woman that was still balancing in her chair.

“Uh,” Clint dropped to the ground–purposefully far from the blood–and stretched out, placing a hand under his head for support. “I think if they’ve been unconscious for less than an hour, you’re good.”

She sat down, not feeling totally uncomfortable, so she didn’t move.

“So, what exactly was happening here?” She asked.

“’m not sure ‘ven I know, to be honest, Katie,” he said. “Let’s jus’ be glad nobody got hurt, and by nobody, I mean me.”

“But you _did_ get hurt.”

“Nope.”

“That doesn’t even ma- forget it.”

They fell into a silence.

A few minutes passed before Kate needed to fill it.

“How’d you like my crossbow?” She asked, not turning around to face the man. “I saw it was missing when I got to your place.”

No response.

She continued, “I knew you were in a real bind when I saw your text. I mean, you don’t ask for backup unless you really need it. Although, you usually _do_ need it,” she paused. “You’re not very good at de-escalating situations, are you? In fact, you usually make them much, much worse.”

A small snore made its way to her ears and she rolled her eyes, turning around to see a sleeping Barton.

“Thanks for not being dead, Boss.”

The police arrived a half an hour later.

After answering the police’s questions and making it clear what exactly had taken place, the two were free to go.

Clint grabbed the ten bucks off the table and smiled, “Should’a told ‘em I’m an Avenger. Might’ve gotten them here sooner.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Oh, please don’t let next time be soon. I need a shower and like thirty hours of sleep.”

“Not to mention around forty stitches.”

“Oh, Kate,” he placed a hand on her shoulder. “You keep me alive. I’d completely _forgotten_ about the constant burning on my chest.”

Kate punched his arm with a little more force than he thought he deserved for the comment. In retaliation he ruffled her hair asking, “Pancakes?”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“Oh, right,” he looked away for a second. “Waffles?”

“…Yeah, sure. Hospital first?”

“Most definitely, I am in a great deal of pain.”

 

                                

                                   Hawkeye2

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

_‘Has anybody seen my new red hat?’_

_‘Oh, piss on your hat.’_

_‘That was uncalled for.’_

Clint sat perched on the edge of his run-down couch, his eyes glued to the TV, as he slowly brought chopsticks, free of food, to his agape mouth.

Just as he discovered the chopsticks were empty, but right before disappointment could set in, Kate walked in, dropping her coat to the ground and heading straight for the fridge.

“Touch my orange juice and I revoke the privilege of having a key to my place,” Clint called from the other side of the room, not sparing a glance in her direction.

“The door wasn’t locked, it’s not a privilege to have 24/7 access to this sty, and I’m looking for alcohol,” she shot back, ducking her head into the bare fridge and suppressing a sigh when she found it beer-less.

“I’m not big on drinking, you know that. Anyway, are you even old enough to drink?” He asked, knowing full well she was.

Her comeback was interrupted by a crappy, two-bit version of Rick Astley’s _‘Together Forever’_ playing from… Somewhere.

“You gonna answer that?”

Standing up, Clint bravely reached an arm between the couch cushions and after a few loud expletives, he pulled his hand out. Grasped tightly in his fist was his phone which he’d misplaced a few days ago.

He flipped it open and, upon seeing who was calling, grimaced.

“Who is it?”

He pointed to the door leading to the hallway.

“Your neighbor? Simone?”

He nodded.

Kate crossed her arms and closed her eyes; that ringtone was really starting to grate on her nerves. She pulled her dark hair up into a pony tail.

“You gonna pick up or do you just enjoy Rick Astley _that_ much?”

“First of all, I _do_ love Rick Astley that much,” he said, making his way to her side, phone held far from his face, as if it were a rabid animal. “And secondly, I’ve been dodging her all week.”

“Why?”

He spoke in a hushed tone, like Simone could hear him through the unanswered phone or perhaps she had her ear pressed up against his door.

“Last Sunday I burrowed her vacuum--“

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“If you’d let me finish?” He shot her an annoyed look. “I burrowed it, but before I could use it, I accidently, kind of broke it.”

The phone stopped ringing and he continued on in a normal voice, guess it was the hearing him through the unanswered phone thing.

“I know she wants it back, but I don’t have the heart to tell her I broke it. What if it had sentimental value?”

“It probably didn’t.”

There was a knock on the door, both Hawkeye’s eyed it warily.

“It’s me,” came Simone’s voice from the other side of the heavy oak barrier. She sounded upset.

With a quick glance at Kate, Clint dashed for his bedroom, jumping gracefully over a good-sized stack of pizza boxes.

“I’m not here,” he whispered, disappearing into the room.

Kate rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips.

She quickly picked up her discarded jacket and draped it over a kitchen chair. She swept empty take-out containers into the trash bag duct-taped to the side of the kitchen table and kicked old newspapers that were laying on the ground under a nearby chair.

Her gaze slid over the apartment. Nope, she thought, still looked like an unattended teenager lived here.

The tall, dark green door stood in front of her, dwarfing her already small size. Shit, she thought, damn you, Clint.

It wasn’t that she was scared Simone would be mad at her, Simone wasn’t an angry person. Quite the contrary, actually.

Simone was a kind, empathetic person, which is why Kate was scared Simone was going to be disappointed or worse: just plain old sad. Kate couldn’t handle that, and neither could Clint, as proven by his straight up ditching.

She twisted the round, brass nob and pulled the door open, peeking out timidly.

Simone had light brown skin, natural curly hair, and worry lines on her thin face. She offered a strained smile.

“Look, Clint broke it, okay?” Kate blurted out. “He’s really sorry, and he’ll pay you back, you know he will.”

“What?” Her voice was thick.

“Your vacuum,” Kate answered, furrowing her brow. “Wait, what’re you here for?”

“It’s Mikayla.” And with that Simone broke down. She hid her face in her hands as her shoulders shook with emotions she was desperately trying to reign in.

Kate opened the door and Simone walked in.

Closing the door, Kate put her hand on Simone’s back and rubbed little circles as she guided the other women to the kitchen table, setting her down on a wobbly chair, taking the chair opposite her and pulling it closer to her friend.

“One second,” Kate said, heading for Clint’s door. She opened it, stepped inside, and saw the room was empty. The window was open, and her eyes drifted to the fire escape.

“Idiot.”

She stepped back into the main room. Once seated, she took the woman’s trembling hand in her own.

“Tell me what happened, Hon.”

Simone composed herself quickly, wiping the tears from her cheeks and sliding her free hand up and down her jeans.

“Well, a few weeks ago I noticed, when Mikayla was going to school, she was locking her bedroom door before she left. Now, I’m not one of those prying mothers, I respect her privacy and trust her enough not to think it’s something serious. I thought she’d come to me if it were that bad.

“A few days ago, I went into her room to get her laundry, and that’s when I found a gun jammed between her bed and the wall. She came running in a few seconds later, yelling at me to get out, but I…” She swallowed wetly, her breath hitching.

Kate listened intently, nodding her reassurances whenever Simone’s distraught eyes met her own sympathetic ones.

“She said it was a gift, I asked from who, and she shut up. Wouldn’t tell me anything except that it was rightfully hers. So, I took the gun and grounded her, but with spring break coming to an end in a few days, I can’t keep an eye on her all day anymore.”

“What kind of gun was it?”

Simone didn’t answer, she simply reached into her large bag and fished around for a moment, before pulling out the cloth-wrapped gun and handing it to Kate silently.

The cloth was pulled gently away to reveal a .357 Revolver in Kate’s hand.

“Did she say if it was a gift from someone at school or someone she met elsewhere?” Kate’s brown eyes leveled with Simone’s.

She shrugged and shook her head, her curls bouncing

“Ok, well-“ Kate was cut off by the door opening.

There Clint stood, looking like the superhero he was, under one arm he hugged a six pack of beer to his side and under the other arm was a brand-new vacuum. He had a big, sweet smile on his face. It was his apology smile, Kate had become used to that face over time.

Clint took one look at Simone’s puffy eyes and frowning lips, and awkwardly jabbed a finger at Kate, the beer almost slipping from under his arm. “I _told_ you it was sentimental!”

“Someone gave Mikayla a gun,” Kate said, resting her elbows on the table. “She’s in trouble.”

Clint froze, processing for a moment then looked to Simone for confirmation, and set the items onto the table. He wiped a hand over his mouth, “That the gun?”

Kate stood up, the backs of her legs pushing her chair backwards with a scraping sound, and handed it to him.

He positioned it in his hand as if he were about to shoot it, though his fingers were safely outside the trigger guard, and slowly spun the cylinder until he found the serial number etched clear as day.

He looked up at Simone, “You see,” he showed her the number. “That’s a good thing that the number is still there, it means we can find out who bought the gun, and it means that whoever gave this to her isn’t an experienced criminal.” He offered a small smile, “or they’re a complete idiot. Either way, they should be easy to find.”

Simone’s hands were shaking, but she was nodding along with his words.

“I-I would’ve gone to the police,” Simone said. “But, I don’t know, I was scared that maybe it was gang related and that they might…”

She didn’t need to finish her sentence.

“Where’s Mikayla now?” Kate asked, pulling her jacket off the chair and putting it back on in one swift motion as Clint walked to the other side of the room.

“Uh, she and David are visiting my sister in Queens for the weekend.” Simone stood up too, hugging herself. “Should I get them? Are they not safe there?”

“For right now, farther is probably better,” Clint said, slipping the gun into a camouflage backpack which he tossed to Kate, who caught it and pulled it on over her coat. “But just to be safe, you might want to call your sister and give her a heads up.”

Simone nodded, adjusting her shirt and stepping to the door, twisting the handle, but not pulling it open.

She bit the inside of her cheek, her gaze flickering up to the two Hawkeyes. “Thank you,” She said. “I’m not sure what I would’ve—”

“It’s all good,” Kate interjected with a raised hand. “No need for thanks.”

“Exactly,” Clint said. “Just remember, one day we’ll show up at your door expecting you to give us free stuff.”

Simone went back to her apartment and Clint locked his up, pulling the door multiple times afterward, just to make sure.

“Your lace,” Kate said, pointing at his foot.

He looked at it, then back up at her. “One sec.”

He got to one knee and began re-tying his shoe. While doing this he said, “I was thinking drop the gun with Marlon, have him run the serial,” he finished and hefted himself up. “Then we could check out Mikayla’s school, see if there’s a gang problem?”

Kate nodded, “Sounds good.”

In the parking garage a cherry red 1970’s Dodge Challenger posed, the sun gleaming hypnotically off its edges like in a commercial. The lines of the body alone made many stop and stare, drool sliding down their chins. The tires seemed pure black, not a flaw to be seen on them.

Kate and Clint approached the Challenger, Clint’s arms wide, like he was about to receive an enthusiastic hug from a weird uncle and just wanted it to be over with.

“Kate,” he said carefully, turning to her. “Where is my car?”

Furrowing her brow and spinning on her booted heal, she pointed to the other side of the garage, “Over there.”

At the other end of Kate’s finger sat a 1991 Jeep Grand Wagoneer, its forest green, box-shaped body taking up the entire parking spot. The sides of the Wagoneer were decked in wood paneling and the grill had layers of bug remains caked onto it.

Clint looked between the two cars.

“Huh.”

They got into the Wagoneer, their doors closing in unison, and the engine sputtered to life, putting first, then rumbling.

Down one, two, three levels and they were on the road to the nearest police station.

Clint bobbed his head to the song that filtered weakly through the radio, thrumming his fingers against the wheel that had tattered duct-tape holding it together.

“Should I-“

“No.”

Kate shot him a look, “Should I call Marlon? Let him know we’re coming.”

He shrugged and turned the radio up, grinning at Kate. 

"Oh, baby you, you got what I neeeeed," he sang, elbowing her.

She rolled her eyes and after a moment's hesitation, gave in. 

"But you say he's just a friend, you say he's just a friend," they sang, dancing in a way only white people can.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I would love to continue this story, so please tell me what you thought!


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